The saddest shortest story

It’s the saddest story, right? The one about baby shoes. And it’s the shortest too! Wow, it’s so frickin’ amazing because it’s sad and short too!

What’s that you say? Massive misogynist scumbag Hemmingway wrote it for a bet with his manly writer chums in a bar?!

Wow, I wish I could be more like him. He was so much of a man that he could be emotional and kill things! And not just emotional, but The Most Emotional of All the Men. Or women! More emotional than women too, but they don’t count so whatever. The best at evoking emotions, he was. And he could even turn his emotion-evoking skills on for a bet so that he could win money and kill more animals and drink more booze!?! What a guy.

My own bit of pseudo-emotional masculine flummery, taken a few months ago on a walk through Birmingham’s canals (maybe not quite so masculine as hunting deer or fascists, but it’s the best I can do) reminded me of the most underwhelming ‘story’ by the most underwhelming author of the Twentieth Century (Old Man and the Sea excepted). Here’s my own baby shoes:

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But which is sadder: small children shoes left on the grass or a used bra on a dirty mattress? (Or should that be: “Dumped: pink bra, used, dirty mattress”?)

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Which is sadder? Well there’s only one way to find out… FIGH – no, hang on, neither really. They’re just photos of shit people have dumped outside a housing estate next to a canal where a heron who looks like Mick Jagger hangs out.

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Not sad at all.

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